He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. I know what he's doing, and I am filled with dread. He's looking out for something else to read. But there's nothing. And then, up ahead, we spot it. A small brown sign, some way away.

Oh no, I think. He's going to read it. He's going to read the sign. Please, no.

But perhaps I can stop this. Perhaps I can deflect it. Perhaps if I can come up with the perfect topic of conversation, I can halt the inevitable ...

'Do you like tea?' I ask, and he says 'yes' but keeps his eyes firmly in front of him.

'What kind of tea do you like?' I ask.

'Normal tea,' he says.

'There are all sorts of different teas,' I say, but he doesn't respond. The sign is almost upon us. It can nearly be read. It's something to do with eggs.

I need to think quick!

'I once punched a kitten!' I say, a little too loudly.

There is a beat.

The man looks at me.

We pass the sign.

'Not really,' I say, smiling.

I have triumphed, and inwardly I am as happy as I have ever been.

The man taps at his steering wheel, and then, under his breath ...

'Farm fresh eggs.'

My heart sinks. This is what the journey is going to be like from now on. I cannot win.

Up ahead, I see a sign.

'Edinburgh, 200 miles,' I say, and the man smiles.

ORDERS

I am sitting in the first-class section of a train from Edinburgh to London. I don't normally get first-class tickets, but I'm on my way home from a business thing, and the organisers had pressed them into my hands and told me to enjoy myself. It is peaceful in first class, apart from a grumpy chef who informs me he's only got a chicken sandwich left.

It is just one week since I drove up here, the passenger of a man who insisted on whiling away the hours by reading out every sign he saw. But here, I sit and happily eat my chicken sandwich in an otherwise empty carriage. I feel lucky and posh. But then the grumpy chef wanders in from his section of the train and sits down on the chair behind me. He is making odd, grumpy noises with his mouth, and he gets his phone out.

'Hello ...' he says, grumpily. 'OK, here we go ... Fifteen Pepsi Cola.'

He clears his throat, loudly, and I put my book down and stare straight in front of me.

'Fifteen, yes,' he says and then makes a 'tsk' noise. Perhaps the person on the other end of the phone deems fifteen Pepsi Cola excessive. He carries on regardless. 'Six lemonade, six red wine, eight white wine ... '

He stops. He's finished.

He carries on.

'Four Yorkies ... twelve gin ... six whiskies ... '